I follow rivers
by LightontheSeaofSorrow
Summary: Three times Sherlock Holmes followed a river to find his way in the world and five times the starry sky showed him a sense of purpose. Inspired by the stories "Level Up" and "Expedition" (written by sevenpercent). Written as a gift for sevenpercent & Skyfullofstars.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **

The original idea behind this story was inspired by the ever-amazing sevenpercent, enhanced by excessive Google Earth tripping and the song "I follow rivers" by Lykke Li playing in the background. It sort of happens in sevenpercent's universe, borrowing some of the ideas and plot lines from her stories _Level_ _Up_ and _Expedition _(chapter 29 of the _Ex Files_); with the kind permission of the author.

But, I kind of promised my first-born to Skyfullofstars, so this story is my gift for her, too.

Seven and Sky, you wonderful ladies, you are my earth and sky on FF and I wouldn't be here without the two of you. Thank you so much for inspiring me!

I hope this story stands alone, but you might get more out of it if you're familiar with the stories mentioned above.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. If to anyone at all, Sherlock belongs to John…and to ACD/BBC/etc. but you are all aware of that anyway. Obviously. So, on with the story!

* * *

"Right up here I'm far away from everything  
Right up here there's nothing that can touch me now  
The only thing that stabs my back is spiky grass  
The only thing that makes me fall is liberty"

(Ben Watt: On Box Hill)

* * *

**Chapter 1: Stepping Stones**

If you had happened to take a stroll along the River Mole on that crisp and clear May night, you could have seen a little boy skipping along the river bank. He looked ethereal and other-worldly in the moonlight, with his pale cheeks and the tumbled mess of his dark curls, like some forest fairy on his way to the woods. If you had asked him who he was and what a young boy like him was doing alone by the riverside at such an ungodly hour, he probably would have flinched and looked away, startled by your worried queries and inquisitive eyes, or maybe by the bark of your dog. In fact, the boy might have just spun on his heels and fled into the wind without an answer – being the little runaway that he was. Chances are, you wouldn't have seen him in the first place, since he could have sensed your presence with his hypersensitive hearing long before you spotted him, and hidden from view behind a rock or a tree trunk like some furtive little animal.

But it was the middle of the night in the middle of the fields along the River Mole and there was no one else around for miles. The little boy with the tumbled curls could go about his business in peace.

He had been following rivers for two nights and two days — and would be following for two more until he found what he was looking for. If the little traveller was tired and wayworn, you couldn't tell it by his gait. He was hopping along the moonlit bank with sure and carefree steps, the thrill of freedom speeding up his flight. Looking at him, you couldn't tell he was far away from home, either. You would have taken him for a local kid, following the twists and turns of the winding river with ease, as if he knew them like the lines on his palms. And he did, in a way. He was following the route on a map imprinted on his mind, certain of his way even in the dark.

Now, his eyes strayed towards the wood-clad hills of Box Hill that towered over him to his right, on the north bank of the river. From the topographical marks on his mind map, he knew there was a view point there, a few miles up the hill. This was not his destination, far from it. This was just a detour, a sidetrack that would make his long and arduous journey even longer. But with the faith of a child, he knew it would be worth the extra miles. This was what he had been waiting for since he left home. For two nights, the clouds had followed him like the anxiety circling in his stomach. But tonight, he felt lucky. The sky was clear and the stars were coming out. The sight of Box Hill looming ahead made him shiver in anticipation. The timing could not have been more perfect.

After rounding the bend, the Stepping Stones came into view. They gleamed on the moonlit river like smooth pearls on a necklace, stretching from bank to bank. On his side of the river, there was a huge old box tree, its bark rough and gnarled, guarding the way to the other side. The boy pressed his palm against the tree, gingerly and reverently, as if asking for a permission to pass. He felt the rush of life underneath, flowing in the veins awakened by spring.

Then he lowered his eyes to the stony hexagons on the water in front of him. The river was running high this time of the year and they were almost submerged. The boy skipped over them carefully, not wanting his shoes to get wet. He counted every one of the seventeen steps as he crossed the stream. When he reached the stony platform on the other bank, he lifted his gaze upwards, not able to contain his enthusiasm any longer. Excitedly, he bounded up the slope and disappeared amongst the trees.

When the boy reached the top of the hill, he saw the stony monument of the viewpoint at the end of the path. He walked to it and finally saw the dark and hilly landscape of the North Downs opening up below him, bathed in moonlight. The view stretched from horizon to horizon, as far as the eye could see. The lights of Dorking gleamed down in the distance. He leaned against the brick parapet and stared for a while, utterly mesmerized, taking it all in.

Then he noticed the small flight of steps at the side of the viewpoint and walked down to the foot of the monument. On either side of the round wall, there was a large platform which formed a space big enough for him to hide from view. He chose the one further away from the village lights. He placed his mac on the slab and lay down on it, his back against the cool stone and his gaze directed at the sky.

With a technique he had perfected on his secret nightly strolls at home, he blinked and relaxed his eyes. Staring _through_ rather than at the sky, he focused on not focusing and lay still, holding his breath. After a moment of adjusting, the scene started to shift and change before his eyes. Just like the Magic Eye 3D pictures that showed a hidden image if you concentrated long enough, he was rewarded with a spectacular sight. Over the vast expanse of the open sky, the silvery lines of the stick-figures of the constellations appeared, filling the whole celestial sphere.

* * *

For as long as the nine-year-old could remember, he had wanted to become a pirate. The days in the country manor he called home were dull and uneventful, protected from the world outside. But pirates, those free souls — oh what a life of danger and adventure they led! It was everything he dreamed of and ached for.

Becoming a pirate in this day and age was not a very likely scenario (even a child had to admit it), but it didn't hurt to be prepared. Luckily, his older brother was a willing conspirator in helping him acquire the skills a pirate might need. In his efficient way, he planned an extensive Pirate Training Course for his little brother, incorporating things he had learned in Eton over the years.

His fencing lessons were turned into "The Art of Swashbuckling". He bought his little brother a play sword and taught him how to wield it. In his eagerness to learn, the little boy practiced for hours on end. He soon proved to be pirate material indeed, with a very deadly sword hand. He defeated his older brother so many times that this part of the course was quickly passed with flying colours, before he managed to humiliate his less agile teacher completely.

Pirates also needed to read maps, so the older brother buried "treasures" on the manor grounds for the smaller one to find. He drew elaborate treasure hunting maps to locate them, embedded with clues to perfect the puzzles. He taught him how to read the topographical signs and marks on the paper and connect them with the actual places outside. The parts of the puzzle soon clicked into place, as the smaller boy knew the grounds as well as the backs of his hands. It was child's play for him, really: the connections, the quest, the puzzle.

And pirates needed to know the stars well enough to navigate, so a bit of star-gazing was required too. Whenever the big brother came home on his breaks from Eton and there was a clear sky (which was not nearly as often as the little boy wished), they would sneak out of the back door long past bedtime, when it was dark enough. They used to take a walk together to the further grounds of the estate, where they had a better view of the night sky over the open lawns.

The older brother taught the younger how to find the North Star and recognize the shapes and patterns of the constellations above them. Since pirates needed good yarns to spin for the tedious moments onboard between battles, he sprinkled his lessons and observations with the latest exciting stories from Roman and Greek mythology that he had learned so far; tying the fates of the gods and the ancient people to the twinkling stars above.

The little pirate-wannabe was an attentive listener and took great pains to absorb every single drop of information as they flowed from his brother's lips. To satisfy his growing curiosity about the more scientific details of the stars that his big brother was unable to provide, there was nothing the articles on astronomy in the numerous encyclopedias in their home library couldn't fix.

By the time the little boy with the dark curls had finished the whole training course, he was as fluent in Piratology as anyone could wish to be.

* * *

Now, on his great adventure-away-from-home, he could finally put his star-gazing skills into use. But it was one thing to catch glimpses of the night sky behind the tree tops on his way here, along the river banks and in the woods – just a promise of something greater. Now that he was finally here, alone on the stony monument on top of Box Hill, he could see the whole sky with nothing to hinder the view and no one to break the spell he was under. Even back at home, watching the stars over the open grounds, there was always the chance that someone would come looking for him and interrupt his nightly pursuits. Here, no one would be able to find him and he was free to do whatever he wanted. Tonight, he could stare to his heart's content. The sky was his canvas and he the painter who traced the silvery lines across it with the brush strokes of his imagination; dot by dot, star by star until the entire celestial show was on display.

There was the mighty hunter Orion chasing after the Seven Sisters; there the terrible monster Hydra, slain by the hero Hercules. And there was Lyra, the beautiful lyre of Orpheus who could charm all living things with his music — _if only he could do the same with his violin one day!_ But his favourite stars were Castor and Pollux, the heavenly twins of the Gemini constellation. The fate of the ancient brothers, transformed into the constellation to keep them together forever, fascinated the little boy. There they were now, sitting side by side in the sky, reminding him of his own brother, as they always did.

While lying alone in the dark playing games with the stars, the little boy experienced the most unusual sensation. Anywhere else, _everywhere_ else, his young mind was in constant motion, providing him with endless background data about every single thing he could sense around him. But tonight, in the face of the heady heights of the universe, even his ever-buzzing brain stilled. It was as if all of his senses focused solely on the scene in front of his eyes, blocking everything else out. The anxiety he usually experienced was lifted and replaced with a quiet kind of peace, enveloping him in its soothing serenity. He was all eyes, _only_ eyes – and this was all he needed.

Wonder-struck, the boy lay still in the blissful silence, watching as his cosmic companions slowly shifted across the night sky. He lost the track of time completely, immersed in his stellar surroundings; simultaneously losing and finding himself in the universe revolving around him.

It was only when the stars started to fade, chased from the sky by the faintest promise of sunrise that the little boy snapped out of his reverie. He sat upright, shook his head and scanned his earthly surroundings with a slightly perplexed look on his face, as if surprised to find himself there. His legs felt numb and his backside was cold from lying on the stony seat of his shelter for hours. But above it all, elevated from the mundane sensations of his defective transport, his spirit soared high and his heart was leaping with joy. Even his wide eyes were still shining, reflecting the light of the stars.

If you had asked him who he was, then and there, the boy would have held his head high and answered boldly: _My name is Sherlock Holmes and I have every right and reason to be here. No one can ever take that away from me. _

The magic of that night made an indelible impression on the curly-haired little boy. Ever after, the sight of the starry skies would send a frisson of holiness through his soul. It would catapult him back to that childhood moment and make him feel indestructible; an infinitesimal speck of dust on the scale of the universe, yet bold and free and alive, vibrating Life with every cell of his body. The memory would remain and follow him to the end of his days; long after the facts and figures of the solar system itself had been deleted from his hard drive and replaced with new, more useful data.

* * *

**Author's Note: ** If you want to know more about why Sherlock ran away, the stories mentioned at the beginning will definitely help. And if you want to know how and when the information about the solar system got deleted, go and read _Periodic Tales_, also by sevenpercent!

Thank you for reading! Reviews will be relished – but as I said, this is my first-born, so be gentle, please! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **The night-time stroll of this chapter takes place during the SIB, after Sherlock solved the password to Irene's phone. The journey that leads Sherlock to the place where he is in this chapter is covered in sevenpercent's _Level __Up_. Do read it first if this makes little sense to you.

**Warnings: **Mention of drug use and murder

* * *

"_Solvitur ambulando_, St. Jerome was fond of saying. To solve a problem, walk around."

(Gregory McNamee)

"All we know is that we don't  
know how it's gonna be  
Please, brother, let it be  
Life, on the other hand  
won't make us understand  
we're all part of the Masterplan"

(Oasis: The Masterplan)

* * *

**Chapter 2: The stuff that matters****  
**

More than two decades later, the pirate dreams of childhood had given way to a more practical occupation — but no less risky to life and limb. The thrill of the chase, the pull of the puzzle had led Sherlock Holmes to the life of a Consulting Detective. The skulls and crossbones were replaced by the bodies at crime scenes and the treasure grounds of home had turned into the battlefields of London; feeding his hunger for danger and adventure. He was living the dream.

But the appetite only grows while eating and by now, he might have got more than he could chew. Or as the pirates would have put it: he was forced between the devil and the deep blue sea, caught in the brutal power games between Mycroft and Moriarty. Cracking the secret code of a certain Irene Adler had led to a series of unfortunate events and he was the one to blame. But instead of staying at their family manor and waiting to be keelhauled by his brother after he cleaned up the Bond Air mess with Moriarty, Sherlock had decided to bolt.*)

* * *

Two nights later, Sherlock was standing at the junction where River Ember slowly flowed into the Thames, deep in thought. The Hampton Court Palace stood opposite him, on the other side of the river, brightly lit up in the night. The reflection of the lamps on Hampton Court Bridge glistened on the dark water that swirled under it, following the course of the river towards Windsor.

He had come a long way to be standing here again, at the crossroads of the past and the future. To the left was the past: the winding path to Eton once taken by a boy who was running to his brother in time of need. To the right lay London, his life and his choice; the future still shrouded from view by doubts. But this time, no doubt about that, he was on his own. To the nine-year-old, his brother had been his pole star, the one he looked up to for guidance. But that delusion, like the rest of his childhood, was water under the bridge now; been and gone. _Things have changed, brother dear. __This time, I know better_. If he didn't break free of his brother now, he never would.

The long walk from the family estate had cleared his thoughts, as well as the sky above. The stars were coming out and there was a crescent moon rising over the palace buildings on the north bank. Sherlock stood under the trees on the other side of the river, watching the familiar shapes of the brick Tudor chimneys. Even in the spectacular night time lighting, the age-old buildings looked less impressive than he remembered. In the eyes of a child, they had seemed like a stronghold, a solid signpost pointing out the path toward his brother. Now they only mocked him, reminding him of the place – and the brother – he had left behind.

Although Sherlock had a vast knowledge of many subjects, general history had never been his cup of tea. Too many morons allowed to rule the fate of nations, too many places and events of no importance whatsoever to the Work. His interest toward it tended to be sporadic; picking out the pieces that held any value and deleting the rest. But coming from one of the oldest aristocratic families in the country, avoiding history was not an option. Although he would never admit it, his background had left him with a sense of significance nevertheless. As much as he wanted to shake off his past, he would always carry the ancestral ghosts on his shoulders. His family had played a minor role in the making of England over the centuries and now, it seemed, it would be his turn.

Sitting down on a bench on the south bank, Sherlock listened to the lapping of the Thames. This was his river, an artery pulsating through his beloved London; throbbing with the ebb and flow of the timeless tides. He thought about the countless invaders the river had witnessed in the course of history: the Romans, the Vikings, the Normans…Today, London faced a fiend of a different kind. James Moriarty was hardly the first Irishman to bear a grudge towards the English, but this time it was personal and directed at him. Although the threat was global, Moriarty was still very much a foe of _his _own. _His_ Archenemy. And Sherlock was the only one who could stop him, no matter what his pretentious git of a brother thought. There had to be a way for him to tackle Moriarty alone, just had to be.

The detective drew his knees against his chest and rested his elbows on his knees. Hands clasped under his chin, he looked up to the starry sky as if searching for answers there. Something kept niggling him but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. The river and the stars — something about that combination bothered him. What was the connection? Why couldn't he remember?

The stars stood mutely in the sky, staring him in the face, just like the Van Buren Supernova so long ago. _It must be possible_…That brought back a memory and suddenly, he just knew. Once before, it had started with the Thames and ended with the stars, just like his musings tonight. _The fourth pip._

* * *

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it", Sherlock had told John when they saw the sliver of the sky full of stars under the Vauxhall Arches. That small confession was not even close to expressing the sensations that the sight of the stars still evoked in him, after all these years. It was beautiful, yes, and he relished it more than he would ever admit to anyone. Even if there was no room for the solar system in his mind palace anymore, the essence of his private childhood moment had never made it to the trash bin of his memories. The stars still reminded him, every time, of being _here _and alive and free; being one with the world and having a purpose in life. Then and there, walking with his best friend beside him, it had been clear that the sense of purpose was shared and appreciated by the both of them. Looking for answers, facing the danger — together. Maybe that was what had made Sherlock reach out to John and say those words, despite himself. He had never wanted to share his childhood memories with anyone else before and doubted he ever would, but it was a small token of trust nevertheless.

Ironically enough, the stars had chosen a rather embarrassing time to remind him of their importance. In hindsight, he could call it divination, a sign of things to come (if he believed in such foolish notions, that is). Just then, they had been running around London trying to solve the case of Alex Woodbridge — an amateur astronomer, of all things. After the Vauxhall Arches, they had headed for the planetarium to find Professor Cairns and the Golem. That was the place that had offered him the final clue to solve the mystery of the lost Vermeer painting — just in the nick of time. After the case, John had been quick to criticize him for the lack of knowledge that almost cost the life of an innocent boy strapped to the bomb. If Sherlock had bothered to pay more attention to the solar system, John had reasoned, the case of the fourth pip could have been solved more quickly.

And yet: wasn't that the whole point? What John had failed to notice was that without him and the public revelations in his blog, many turns of the great game would have been played out in a very different manner. John's blog had made the consulting detective both famous and bare, exposing his secret and embarrassing weaknesses for anyone to read — and Moriarty had harnessed that information to his advantage. After all, the twofold purpose of the game had been to simultaneously challenge and humiliate the detective.

The fact that the puzzles had been designed for him only was obvious, of course. But, as much as it had been a display of Moriarty's merits, advertising the artistic range of his criminal ingenuity, the Irishman had also gone to great lengths at pointing out the shortcomings and weaknesses of his opponent while doing that. Every one of the five pips had also been a direct personal taunt: scorning Sherlock for the inability to solve the Carl Powers case in his youth (while Moriarty himself got away with murder), trails of the second pip leading to Colombia in an I-know-what-you-did-in-your-recreational-past kind of way; and in the cases of Connie Prince and Alex Woodbridge, taunting his lack of knowledge in popular culture and astronomy — both facts made public information by his blogger. Moriarty had been well versed in Sherlock's weaknesses and because of that, had dared him to fail; had _expected_ him to fail…And in the case of the supernova, it had been just a little too close for comfort.

Back then, John's taunts of his ignorance had rankled, even after solving the case before the deadline. But he got Moriarty's message, loud and clear: Sherlock had been too young and powerless to intervene before, too high to pay attention to what was going on "in the big bad world" out there (as Moriarty put it himself), and lately just too slow and ignorant to ever catch the consulting criminal…at least as long as he kept spending time in the ordinary company of John.

By leaving John as the last pip, Moriarty had finally driven the point home. John _was_ Sherlock's ultimate weakness… After the pool incident, that revelation had opened his eyes and terrified him at the same time. Since then, he had come to terms with what having John by his side meant. That was the one good thing he had, something that he didn't have to regret or question — no matter what Moriarty or anyone else thought about their relationship. And he knew now what needed to be done to keep John alive…

Thinking about _that_ distracted him, threatening to lead his mind to places he didn't want to go. Sighing, he stopped the train of thought and stuffed his feelings for John back into the depths of his mind palace. They weren't helping him right now; he needed to concentrate on the problem at hand. Getting impatient with himself, he backtracked a bit. Where was he going with this? Oh right, the stars.

The stars had been his weakness then, making him almost fail the five pips campaign because of the lack of astronomical knowledge. But maybe he could turn them to be his strength instead; providing him with the epiphany he so sorely needed right now. In a twisted way, John had been right after all: this _was_ the stuff that mattered.

John, ever his conductor of light, had shown him that information and exposure were the key words to induce a broadside from Moriarty. Only this time, Sherlock would provide the ammunition himself. By using all the possible channels available to him, he would create a path of tempting breadcrumbs of (mis)information, strewn at strategic places — and Moriarty would certainly follow. The detective knew that after the recent events Moriarty would come after him soon enough anyway. But by being provident, Sherlock could at least influence the course of the path that the consulting criminal would have to follow to get to him. Instead of continuing their hide and seek games in private, he needed to lay himself bare, exposing every inch of himself to public scrutiny: his ego, his eccentricities, his weaknesses, his whole life story. He would bare his throat and wait for the Irishman to come and take a bite.

Underneath the stars, new ideas were emerging. The detective needed to plan every step of the way with the utmost care and precision, always ahead of Moriarty and Mycroft. But combined with the general approach and the flexible strategies he had outlined earlier during his journey from the manor**), he was as close to a Masterplan as he would ever get.

It would be a path of secret scenarios and lies, but it would be the only way to go. To follow that path, to play that game, bridges needed to burn. Sherlock sat still for a moment more, listening to the waves of the Thames in the silent night. For the first time in days, he felt certain again: grounded by the steady soil of England beneath his feet, the constant skies above him and the endless river meandering through land and life beside him.

Further down the stream, beyond Teddington Lock, the tide was already rising. This time, come hell or high water, he would be ready. Defiantly, Sherlock stood up and turned his back on the Hampton Court Bridge. _The game is on! _With a swagger in his steps and a smirk on his face, he resumed his long walk home to Baker Street; blissfully ignorant of the gauntlet he would be forced to run.

High up in the sky the stars still twinkled, showing him the way to go. Underneath the stars, his river was still running, rushing towards London by his side. The stars in the sky, the waves in the water — turning to the tango of touch and go, winding with the waltz of what ifs.

* * *

**Author's Note:  
***) & **) If you are curious about the circumstances behind Sherlock's decision to flee and the strategies he invented earlier during his second cross-country walk, I strongly recommend reading _Level Up_, once again. Those things are not for me to tell.

An essential part of this chapter adamantly refused to be written almost until the very end. So, if this chapter was confusing, bear with me – it will get better!

Thank you again for reading! Reviews will be relished!


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Wow, so many people around the globe have at least looked at this little story; that is so cool! Even cooler would be to get more reviews and to hear how you've actually liked it so far! Even the shortest of reviews would make my day… *wink wink, nudge nudge*

And now for my own take on post-Reichenbach Angst from the other side of the Atlantic…

**Warnings: **Mention of suicide and death; mild profanity

* * *

"Exile.  
It takes your mind…again.  
You've got sucker's luck  
Have you given up?"

(The National: Exile Vilify)

"…Far away  
far away from the memories  
of the people who care  
if I live or die

Starlight  
I will be chasing a starlight  
until the end of my life  
I don't know if it's worth it anymore"

(Muse: Starlight)

* * *

**Chapter 3: Far away from the memories**

A faked suicide and eight hundred days later, Sherlock Holmes found himself trekking along the River Paraná in Paraguay, following a treasure trail of a different kind. He was gathering intelligence about the movements of a vast smuggling and terrorist network in the Tri-Border Area between Paraguay, Brazil and Argentina; in hopes of locating and destroying two of Moriarty's major local associates. They operated by boats from dozens of clandestine ports along the River Paraná that separated the three countries from each other, so the only way to follow their movements unobserved was to follow the river at night.

Sherlock may have been on the side of the angels but he still had no wings to fly and was forced to plod along the earthly paths just like lesser mortals. Despite a pair of strong feet and the latest model of night vision binoculars found on the boundless pirate market of Ciudad del Este, following the river was slow and tedious business. And this time, the physical activity or the surveillance offered him no peace of mind.

The river kept meandering through the landscape, sending him two steps forward, three steps back; never making much headway. That was oddly similar to how Sherlock felt about his situation at large. Wherever he turned, there seemed to be new clues, new leads waiting for him just around the bend; the web of crimes stretching indefinitely in all directions with no end in sight.

The first time Sherlock had followed a river as a nine-year-old, the only thing to guide him on his journey was the map in his mind, imprinted on his memory. Since then, the Map Room of his mind palace had been cluttered with countless other maps, guidebooks and route planners. These days, when GPS and mobile maps on every phone made it virtually impossible for even the idiots to get lost, Sherlock still preferred to rely on his own inner compass. His ability to memorize any map in a matter of minutes had proved invaluable in the months and years spent pursuing the tentacles of Moriarty's network across the globe.

Knowing the way and getting there were two very different matters, however. Sherlock was tired beyond belief, weary in body and soul in a way he had never known before. Going without food or rest for days on end was nothing new to him, but this was something else entirely. The endless pursuit and the days on the run were like chasing the end of the rainbow, the goal always shifting further away from his grasp. Lately, he had become more and more skeptical about the goal, too. Even if he could get to the other end, would it actually be worth catching?

Scowling, he remembered his Father telling him, all those years ago, "You'll never amount to anything." _If only Father could see him now_. He wondered if what he was doing these days, single-handedly taking down the organization of a criminal mastermind, could have been classified as meaningful in his eyes. Somehow, he found it hard to believe, with his own faith in shreds about the mission he'd set out for himself. Even by his standards, this was utter madness; megalomaniac and futile. "Why are you doing this then, Sherlock?" John's quiet voice asked in his head. The answer came, as it always did, in the blink of an eye. _"Because I need to… come home."_

In another context, leaving one's old life behind to travel the world without any binding ties could have been a very liberating experience. As it was, he may have been a free spirit, but this was a bitter kind of freedom, borne out of necessity rather than choice. Technically, he had beaten Moriarty in his own game, but that was cold comfort. In the homeless, nameless and faceless phantom existence of his, it was far from over. As long as he was a slave to the mission, he could not be his own man again. If he was ever to claim back the life that had once belonged to him, he needed to end this for good.

There had been better days, hopeful days when the thought of succeeding had still seemed somehow possible. But he was slipping, and he knew it. With the rate he was now going, he wondered if he would ever get that far. On days like these, it felt easier to bow to the inevitable and admit that the light at the end of the tunnel was only the headlight of an oncoming train. Another inane expression that had somehow crept into his vocabulary during one of those crap telly marathons that a certain jobless flatmate had made him sit out — in a place and time so far removed from this grim reality that it seemed to him now as distant as a parallel universe.

As the physical and mental exhaustion grew, Sherlock found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything but the task at hand. All the things he had seen and done since the Fall, all the things he would still have to do, were piling up in his head, threatening to send his mind into chaos. He felt clogged and dispersed; his thoughts and plans scattered all over with the ever-accumulating data that he had no time to process. He needed to think, really _think_ about what he was going to do in his vile exile. But getting to his mind palace was impossible as he was constantly on his guard and needed to stay alert. Losing the track of time and place was something he simply could not afford now. If only he could finish this task and return to Ciudad del Este… There he could rest in the rendezvous point for a while and re-think his plans in peace.

With heavy footfalls and a heavier heart, he continued his lonely venture along the bank of the river in the gloomy night. The path was slippery and treacherous at the best of times and he needed to stay focused for fear of sliding into the deep river or tripping over some roots and obstacles on the way while carrying out his surveillance. With a sprained ankle in the back of beyond, he would be as good as dead. Well, that was hardly an accurate description, considering that he practically _was _a dead man walking — but there was no need to make that state more permanent than it already was. Not that he cared very much anymore, either way.

* * *

The path Sherlock was following spiraled upwards on a hill, further away from the river. Suddenly, the wind picked up, bringing fierce _pampero _breezes from the South Atlantic. They ruffled his short hair like a cool caress. Another sea-scented breeze drew a shiver deep down his spine with chilly fingers. "You get sudden shudders when someone is walking over your grave", John had told him once. The macabre likelihood of that scenario made him shiver again and, involuntarily, he closed his eyes. Unchecked and unbidden, the image of John-on-the-grave-head-bowed-crying— flashed behind his eyelids. Scorching his eyes, torture.*

To banish it, Sherlock tore his eyes open and blinked at the sky above him. His cosmic companions winked down at him between the clouds. _You're not dead. You're still here. He's still out there, thanks to you. _Despite the pang of guilt, the mere thought of John was a warm blanket that he wrapped tighter around his shivering shoulders. That was as far as he could allow his thoughts to go, for now. _Later for that_, he kept reminding himself. _Much later_. He had miles to go, places to reach and missions to accomplish before dawn.

The serious man nodded to himself, as if summoning the strength to go on. Before he could make up his mind to move, the cold winter wind returned for another round and scattered the low-lying clouds from the sky. All of a sudden, Sherlock found himself standing under the halo-haired moon and a carpet of southern stars. The hilly landscape before him bathed in the fluorescent moonlight and he could see for miles and miles. He froze to the spot and gasped.

In a metaphysical burst of the senses, he could feel the floodgates of his mind palace buckle and relent. The vivid images of all the star-gazing moments he had ever experienced in his life came washing along the corridors, sweeping everything in their wake. All he could do was stop and stare. The sights and sounds, moments and memories all coalesced into one whirlwind of data until his head was full of starlight, searing yet sublime.

The slideshow was over within seconds, but the sudden surge of sensations took him by surprise and made his head spin. Reeling, Sherlock tried to steady himself by grasping at a nearby tree but it was too far away for support. He fell on his knees to the ground, completely overwhelmed.

As the memories retreated, like the waves of a backwards tsunami, they left behind a vacuum and everything around him stilled. It was devoid of everything but the surprised beating of his heart. As he sat there gasping for breath, staring at the stars above and listening to his own steady heartbeat, a sense of urgency slowly seeped in to fill the void. Breathe in… Breathe out… Thump, thump… Thump, thump. _I am… still here… I am… still here…_

His breathing patterns mixed with the mantra in his head; reciting it over and over and over until he could almost believe it again. The relieving repetition grounded him in the here and now. Somewhere deep deep down, through all the layers of memories, welled up the same kind of peace he had experienced once before as a nine-year-old. In the turmoil of his life and mind, it felt like an unexpected oasis of calm.

Sherlock sat on the ground, arms around his knees and staring into the night with unseeing eyes. Still breathing and listening; still existing, in spite of everything. His whole body relaxed and his mind went totally blank, tuned in to the soothing silence within. For the first time in months, something resembling a flicker of hope re-ignited in his chest.

That, after all, was the trick. To keep breathing, to keep going. Even if he was worlds apart from the people who had cared if he lived or died.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

*) The line is borrowed from an AO3 story called _The Reichenbach Playlist,_ by 3All_Just_Stories_in_the_End3. My little tribute to one of the earliest Reichenbach fics I ever happened to read and that paved my way to the wonderful world of Sherlock fan fiction. Thank you for kindly letting me use your line in this story! :)

Also, thanks to sevenpercent for letting me steal the voice of Sherlock's evil father for this chapter! ;)

The funny thing about this chapter is that I picked the location randomly on Google Earth, based on the geographical location only. But the more I found out about Ciudad del Este, the more convinced I became that it IS the perfect place for our Sherlock. The smuggling and terrorist things, as well as the clandestine ports, are all real, although I had no idea about it while I first wrote this.  
Similarly, all the other sites and places mentioned in this story are real, so feel free to google them up! That's part of the experience! :)

And remember: reading is silver, reviews are gold! XD


	4. Epilogue

**Author's Note: **Have you done your maths correctly? Then you know that there's one more starry scene left before I finish. Enjoy! :)

**Warnings: **Mention of death and violence; mild profanity

* * *

"I'll get you through the checkpoints  
I'll drive us through the night  
You know I'll keep your secret  
I've locked it up inside  
As long as we are moving  
Yeah I know it'll be alright"

(Say Lou Lou: Julian)

"I won't ever let you fall out of my senses  
Fall out of my own hands  
No I won't ever let you let you

Will I find my way home?  
Will I find my way home?  
Will I find my way home?"

(Ben Christophers: Transatlantic shooting stars)

* * *

**EPILOGUE: Transatlantic shooting stars**

Three weeks later, a nondescript grey Dodge pulls up at the curb near the Friendship Bridge checkpoint, on the Paraguayan side of the River Paraná. It is late at night but the chaotic traffic on the bridge that crosses the border from Paraguay to Brazil is showing no signs of slowing down. The incessant flow of cars, buses and trucks is mixed with the swerving motorcycle-taxis and reckless pedestrians who are all vying for victory for the fastest and most dangerous crossing over the river.

The passenger door of the Dodge opens and a tall man steps out of the car, ignoring the mayhem around him. He walks to the riverside railing and pulls out a crumpled packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his hoodie. The flicker of the lighter illuminates his gaunt face for a few seconds.

The female chauffeur, who goes here simply by the name of Maria, observes her passenger through the rearview mirror. She watches as the far too thin man with short black hair and a fashionable stubble leans over the railing. He is smoking away at ease, looking like any tourist in his tight jeans and a black hoodie, waiting to cross the border after a shopping spree in Ciudal del Este. If his face is unusually pale or the slender hand that's holding the cigarette is slightly shaking, a casual observer would brush them off as the natural aftereffects of drinking too much of the local _caña_, like many young travellers tend to do on their adventures in Paraguay.

But the woman behind the steering wheel knows better. She frowns and purses her cerise lips into a thin line of disapproval. Yet, there's a big difference compared to the chain-smoking, nervously fidgeting bearded wreck of a stranger who turned up at her door only five nights ago, battered and bleeding from a knife wound to his right upper arm. A man who vaguely resembled the brilliant consulting detective she once used to know.

The days that passed resting and recovering have done wonders to her surprise guest. In the relative safety of her private rooms in Hotel Austria, her current refuge and employer, she has witnessed something of a sea change in him. The man who is now standing outside is calmer and contained, even if he is no longer exuding the cool confidence she used to attribute to him. Not surprisingly, the most effective remedy seemed to be the long hours spent in the supine silence of his mind palace.

She has seen the man do that once before, a lifetime ago in a place far away from here, and emerging with the answers he needed back then. The answers that have led them both here, through so many twists and turns. Now, at the other end of things, their paths have crossed again.

The driver takes off her black leather gloves, reaches for her handbag on the back seat and pulls it to her lap. She fishes out two travel documents and places them on the dashboard: the shiny black Argentinian passport of Mister Juliano Martínez on top of her own. She can't help but wonder how many other aliases and fake passports the dead-and-buried detective has had in his Afterlife. Certainly more than herself.

But by silent mutual agreement, no questions are asked, no plans revealed. The less they know about each other, the better. And the things they have known or deduced, they keep between themselves. _Your secret is safe with me_. That's fine by her; she's only returning a favour. He kept her secret once, now she will keep his. The once-and-future detective knows this and trusts her to play her part.

Besides, by helping him she is helping herself, too. Their destinies are tied now, the future and the resurrection of the both of them hanging in the balance. If he fails, there will be no returning for her either.

* * *

The tall man stands in the night, relishing the last drags of his cigarette — a dear old habit he has taken up again, as there's no one here to tell him that he shouldn't. The glowing cigarette in his fingers is a small farewell trophy, before leaving another damned country he has no intention of ever visiting again. This has become something of a transition ritual for him during his exile: breathing in new roles and places upon arrival, smoking them out of his system when leaving.

Absentmindedly, the man leans over the railing to look at the murky water flowing under the bridge. Down below, River Paraná is rushing beside Paraguay and towards the distant ocean. In his mind's eye, he can trace the course of the water from here: flowing out into the Atlantic between Argentina and Uruguay, joining the Brazil Current off the coast, then whirling and eddying with the South and North Equatorial Currents before joining the Gulf Stream up north. If he could follow the Gulf Stream on the crest of the waves over the Atlantic, the currents would eventually bring him back to Europe and up the Thames with the returning tides…

As if to highlight his thoughts, a single shooting star whooshes across the starry sky towards the east, in the direction of the Atlantic. A whole ocean between him and home… Six thousand, two hundred and sixty-nine miles. Ten thousand and eighty-eight kilometres. A knot of something hard coils in his stomach and he feels his chest tighten. He wonders if this is what homesickness feels like.

"You're supposed to make a wish", the man remembers Mummy telling him when he was a little boy. Another one of those silly superstitions ordinary people cling to; as if wishing on a piece of dead rock could make any difference to anyone. He shakes his head, frowning. In his world of logic and lies, there is no place for such sentimental stupidity. What is the bloody point?

But against his own words of wisdom, his heart decides to overrule his head for once. In a sudden leap between the beats, his traitor heart makes a voiceless wish; reaching far across the Atlantic like the stepping stones over a river he crossed so long ago. Annoyed with himself, the man lets out a huff of breath, turns his back on the swirling river and strides back to the waiting car.

* * *

Maria watches as the smoking man shakes his head. Then he flings the stub of the cigarette into the river and returns to the car. The car door slams shut with more force than necessary and the dark figure slumps into the passenger seat next to her, his face unreadable. She gives him a quizzical look and chirps "Ready when you are", with a tone far too cheerful for the occasion. The underlying questions hover in the air between them, unasked and unanswered.

After a moment of silence that threatens to change from companionable to awkward, she squeezes his shoulder lightly, but without hesitation. The man doesn't flinch or try to pull away from her tentative grasp, but turns his head to stare out of the window into the distance. They sit side by side in the car for a while, waiting for his confirmation.

The woman scrutinizes the features of her brooding passenger. She yearns to probe and reach out, to lift the mask from his face and peek inside, if only for a second. Curiously, she wonders what the years on the run have been like for him. How has he been coping without the other half of himself? From the sunken cheekbones, the lines on his brow, the downward curve of his lips and the passing shadows in his eyes she can read all she needs to know that the years (and the loneliness) have taken their toll — the same telltale signs that mercilessly stare at her in the mirror whenever she dares to face her own reflection. The woman knows the price to pay for being a living dead only too well herself. How long will they have to keep existing like this, always looking over their shoulders?

Car horns blare further along the bridge and they hear angry voices shouting in Spanish and Portuguese, then the echo of a car backfiring somewhere rings out like a shot in the dark. Harsh sounds of life and reality that shake her out of her bitter thoughts, reminding her of their immediate situation. They must keep moving: he needs to get out of this place. _Now._

As if reading her mind, the pensive man nods and turns to look at the woman behind the steering wheel. He gives her a small, but reassuring smile that reaches all the way to his grey-green eyes, and says in a quiet but firm baritone "I am ready. Let's continue." Underneath the smile, the steely glint of determination is shining through.

* * *

The grey Dodge roars back into life on the Friendship Bridge. Alone together, the two phantoms drive to the checkpoint. After passing through the cursory passport control, they cross the river and vanish into the night. Left behind on the bridge above the river, the vaporous wish evaporates into the cool night air, spiraling towards the stars like a silent prayer. One day soon, if he is very very lucky, Sherlock Holmes might be allowed to obey the call of the returning tide and follow the Thames back home.

**The End.**

* * *

**Author's Note:**

How about that surprise entry for an ending? Well, maybe not so surprising if you're familiar with the story of _Level Up_…

A final thanks to sevenpercent and Skyfullofstars for the inspiration of this story! I can only hope I lived up to your high standards and that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed finally getting this out of my head and out there for you to read! :)

Also, thank you to everyone else who read the story, let alone followed or favorited me. That means a lot! Reviews are much appreciated! :)


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